


The Castle Stuart Affair

by WendieZ



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendieZ/pseuds/WendieZ
Summary: A typical infiltrate, photograph secret files, try not to get caught, hide the film and execute remarkable escape after getting caught affair
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The Castle Stuart Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaH Carabele](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=LaH+Carabele).



> A gift challenge for LaH Carabele 
> 
> Prompts: Sight: a hanging tapestry; Sound: a fierce wind; Feel/Smell: a patina of age

_Inverness Civil Airport, about 10k from Inverness, capitol of Highlands Scotland_

_Early December 1965_

The small single engine plane made a soft landing on the heath-covered runway and taxied to a stop. The pilot set the brake and killed the engine. “Welcome to Inverness Airport,” Illya Kuryakin called back from the cockpit to his partner and passenger.

The suave dark-haired agent came forward and gazed across the snow-crusted field. “Looks like the middle of nowhere. I don’t even see a bird flying.” 

“We may be in northern Scotland, Napoleon but this is hardly tundra. Two-thirds of my country is further north than we are now.”

“You always _were_ a little more cold-blooded than me, my friend,” Napoleon teased with a smile. “So how far are we from our feathered friends’ nest?”

“According to the map, about three kilometers or so. Hopefully, we’ll have some cover as we approach.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to come all this way for a surprise party and find the guests of honor were expecting us.”

“With the biggest surprise being that they didn’t know we crashed the party just to take pictures.” Kuryakin followed Napoleon to the rear of the plane to collect his gear and dress for the weather. The outside temperature was not bitterly cold, but damp, making the chill air more penetrating. 

The pair set a course west by southwest where Intelligence had pinpointed the location of the THRUSH installation. They were a kilometer away when they spotted the tall stone building in the distance. “It looks like a castle of some sort,” Illya said from behind his binoculars.

Napoleon studied the map. “It sure does.” Suddenly he inhaled sharply.

Illya looked around. “What’s wrong?”

“It just came to me. Do you know where we are?”

“Aside from the obvious answer, I assume? No, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”

“I could be wrong, but according to the map,” he pointed to a spot on the other side of their target, “this is the Battlefield of Culloden, and if it is, THRUSH has set up its operations in Stuart Castle.”

“I’m afraid I’m not well versed in Scottish history, Napoleon.”

“It’s the castle that belonged to Charles Edward Stuart _aka_ Bonnie Prince Charlie. Didn’t you ever read Robert Louis Stevenson’s book _Kidnapped_?”

“It’s on my list of ‘things to do’ I assure you.”

“Well, you’ll have to move it to the top of your list when we get home. The book takes place in Scotland, and some of it in this very area. I utterly devoured that book when I was a kid.”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm for the topic, but what does it have to do with our mission to abscond with THRUSH’s latest projects?”

“ _Kidnapped_ is a classic historical fiction. I can’t believe you haven’t read it.” 

“When have I had time for reading? Mr. Waverly is lucky to get mission reports lately.”

“I’ll make sure you get some vacation time when we get back.” 

“Someplace warm, if you don’t mind,” Illya countered. “I hear Tahiti is delightful this time of year.”

“That’s vacation _time_ , Illya, not a vacation. But if that’s where you plan on going, you’d better make me an invitation as well. I’m not going to brave the snow in New York while you bask in the tropical sun in Tahiti.”

“But, you’re no fun on vacation, Napoleon. Every time we go on a trip like that, we end up working anyway or getting embroiled in some other nonsense.” Illya raised the binoculars to his eyes once again. “The very least you can do for me is make sure _she_ has a friend. Then it’ll be worth it,” he added with an impish grin. 

Before Napoleon could comment, Illya was suddenly all business again. “I can’t see us getting inside that place until dark, which should be,” he glanced at his watch, “in an hour or so. What do you think?” He passed the binoculars to Solo.

Napoleon studied the building and the grounds around it. “I think I’d like to mosey on down to that uninhabited cottage and have a nice dinner. What did you bring along?”

“Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches on dark rye.”

Napoleon grimaced at his partner. “Please tell me you’re pulling my leg.”

“Peanut butter has a great deal of quality protein.”

“I swear I’m going to pummel the person who introduced you to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Is it just possible you brought anything else?”

A slight smile touched the corner of Kuryakin’s mouth. “Don’t worry, my friend. I brought a veritable feast. Roast beef for you. And cheese for both of us.”

“Okay, you’re exonerated. Let’s settle in for an hour or so, and then relieve these birds of their nefarious plans.”

“Now that sounds like fun. Lead on.”

* * * * *

The area around the castle was well-lit, but the light failed to penetrate the darkness more than twenty-five yards from the building. The entire estate was a mass of trees, untrimmed shrubs and overgrown gardens, giving the two UNCLE agents ample cover to approach. Armed guards in standard THRUSH uniform coveralls and jackets patrolled in the dim light beyond the reach of the outside lighting.

Napoleon and Illya easily dispatched two guards of comparable size, relieved them of their clothing and THRUSH rifles and slipped into the moving patrol pattern until they were able to “desert” their posts for the nearest accessible door. Then, it was merely a matter of finding the room where the installation kept their documents.

Experience suggested they split up, one go up, one down to bring the search time to a minimum, with the lucky party sending a short blip via communicator to announce his success. Napoleon and Illya each had a camera, so while the unsuccessful agent caught up with his partner, the other photographed the necessary documents. With luck, they would make a hasty retreat, hopefully with THRUSH being none the wiser. Since they could never completely trust luck, they were prepared to shoot their way out the building and execute a daring escape with their plunder. The real luck was in evading capture and coming back unscathed.

Napoleon’s communicator chirped softly while he was in the middle of picking his third lock on the second floor. “Who says I have all the luck?” he murmured to himself and quickly packed his gear. A few minutes later at the south end of the first floor he found his partner crouched in front of a large safe snapping photographic evidence of THRUSH plans for nefarious mischief in Western Europe.

“I’ll be done here in a second,” the blond Russian whispered barely glancing up as flipped page after page. “Any sign of our friends?”

Solo scanned the hallway once more, but saw nothing. “Strangely, no. They must not have a very good detection system. I was really expecting some company by now.”

Kuryakin stood up and packed up his and Napoleon’s photographic equipment. “Perhaps they believe they’re too secluded to be suspicious. The castle does appear deserted from the outside. If we can slip out without their notice, they will remain blissfully ignorant.”

“I’m all for that. Let’s go.” The pair moved cautiously through the hallway, retracing their steps to the door where they entered. “This was almost too easy,” Napoleon said as he turned the doorknob to the outside door. 

Suddenly, a bright light caught him full in the face, momentarily blinding him. He heard Illya yell at him to pull the door closed and reacted to the urgency in his friend’s voice. A strong hand grasped the fabric of his clothing and began to pull him towards the down stairway that had been on their right. Solo’s vision recovered quickly in the dim light and he followed the dark shadow that was his partner down the unlit stairwell.

Illya had jumped the last several steps to the landing with Napoleon ready to follow when several shots were fired down into the stairwell, one catching the shoulder of Solo’s THRUSH coveralls. Illya heard a gasp behind him and suddenly, his partner’s body slammed into his back when Napoleon stumbled down the last steps, unable to catch himself. Both agents hit the concrete floor with a groan.

Recovering first, Illya grabbed Napoleon’s clothing, half-carrying the disoriented man out of the line of fire. “Are you hit?” he asked breathlessly.

“Shoulder—just a scratch,” Solo managed to cough out as they tried to escape the guards they heard descending the stairs. “Go—I’m just slowing you down.”

“Sorry,” Illya replied, as he gripped the cloth more tightly. “You promised me a lengthy vacation in Tahiti complete with delectable female companionship. I’m not going to let you welch on that promise.”

Any comeback Napoleon might have made died on his lips when he saw their way blocked by four THRUSH rifles in the hands of very capable-looking gunmen in standard uniforms. He looked behind them and found the stairway exit equally blocked. “I think we have a small problem,” he said softly.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” Kuryakin said with a heavy sigh from exertion. “You wouldn’t by chance have any ideas, would you?”

“I might,” Napoleon replied, his voice reflecting his discomfort.

“I hope it doesn’t involve trying to shoot our way out, because I don’t think you’re up for it, no matter what you say.”

Solo reached into backpack pocket where he knew the Russian had stowed the film canisters and pulled them out. “Here,” he said and pressed a canister of film into Kuryakin’s fist grasping his coveralls. “Swallow it and let them see you do it.”

Widened blue eyes caught the brown ones. “ _That’s_ your idea?”

Napoleon sighed heavily in response to his throbbing of his shoulder and shifted his weight to lean against the wall, freeing him from his partner’s grasp. “Best I could do under the circumstances.”

Illya looked down at the small cylinder and frowned. “But, Napoleon—”

“Just do it; it’ll be fine.”

Illya shrugged in deference and raised his hand holding the tiny film canister. “Hey!” he called out loudly to bring the attention of the guards to himself. “Look what I’ve got! Pictures of all your files!” He dropped the canister onto his tongue and swallowed hard. “And there it goes—down the hatch!” Kuryakin dropped his Special and raised his open hands, grinning. “All gone.”

While Kuryakin was performing his disappearing film canister act, Napoleon slid down the wall until he sat on the floor. As he descended, he palmed a second film canister and passed it up to his wounded shoulder. The wound itself was merely a deep graze, a through-and through from the back that had bored a hole in his upper deltoid muscle, but it was spewing out a considerable amount of blood. Solo placed the canister to the opening of the wound and when his backside hit the floor, he pushed it deep into the tunnel made by the bullet, hoping the resulting groan appeared to be a result of the jar of the floor. 

Illya had no time to react to his partner’s plight, for the guards grabbed them both and ushered them to the command center of the installation. Only when they stood awaiting the appearance of the commander, was he able to wrestle Napoleon from the rough grasp of the guards to support the wounded man himself.

A few moments later a tall brunette wearing a white lab coat entered and stood at the captives the guards had provided. “Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin,” she said frowning.

Despite his shoulder wound throbbing like a live pulse, Napoleon could not help but smile at the attractive woman. “It seems you have me at a bit of a disadvantage. Doctor?”

“Yes,” Illya agreed. “You seem to know us, but we have not had the pleasure.”

The woman scrutinized them haughtily. “Of course you do not know me, though we have met before. I am never the same person twice, a person of a thousand faces.”

“Doctor Egret,” both agents answered in unison and the brunette smiled, tilting her head in acceptance.

“After that business with Dr. Burell’s formula last spring (The Girls of Nazarone Affair), I wondered if you’d turn up again,” Solo said.

The brown eyes in the beautiful face flashed angrily. “Considering that the formula ultimately proved deadly, and THRUSH tends to frown on failure, I was forced to find seclusion until an appropriate amount of time had calmed their irritation. But it gave me time to consider other, more far-reaching projects.” A cruel smile appeared. “The photographs of which now seem to be residing in Mr. Kuryakin’s stomach.”

“Sorry,” Illya said with a slight smirk, “being captured always gives me an enormous appetite.” 

“Don’t worry, Mr. Kuryakin. The film will be easy enough to retrieve. In the meantime, I’ll have the guards take you to the tower room where you can wait while I decide exactly what I want to do with both of you. Be sure to take the time to admire the tower room’s magnificent view. But should you be thinking of an escape attempt, consider that the view is provided by windows five stories up a sheer stone wall. A nasty fall at best.”

The guards roughly dragged Napoleon and escorted Illya, who vehemently objected to the treatment of his partner until one of the guards replied to the Russian’s tirade with a rifle butt behind the ear. Afterward, the guards dragged the two silent agents up the remainder of the five flights of stairs and tossed them into a large dark room with rough-hewn wood floors, stonewalls and moldering tapestries hanging from the ceiling.

* * * * *

“Illya, wake up!” Napoleon called across the room from where the THRUSH guard had propped him against the wall. A strong, cold wind whistled through the pane-less, iron-barred window opening hitting him straight on and he was extremely uncomfortable. “Come on, buddy, I need you!”

A soft moan answered as the Russian struggled to wade through the tangle of muddled thoughts in a mind trying to regain coherency. Finally, Kuryakin rolled over onto his side to face Solo. “I have a headache, Napoleon,” he grumbled in annoyance. “Could you whine a little more softly?” 

“If you hadn’t been so argumentative while they were hauling us up here, you wouldn’t have a headache,” Napoleon shot back at him. “Meanwhile, you’re taking a nap and I’m bleeding all over the place. And I’m freezing.”

“Now I remember—Dr. Egret.” Illya crawled over to his partner on hands and knees, a small flashlight between his teeth to inspect the wound. “That’s a lot of blood for just a scratch.”

“It’s a through-and-through—top of the deltoid.”

A slight smile formed on Kuryakin’s lips. “The fleshy part, that’s the best kind.”

Solo echoed the grin at the inside joke. “Thanks, Kitt (The Four Steps Affair). Problem is, what are we going to do about it?”

“I’d like to pack it with something, but I don’t want to go ripping apart our clothing. The way that wind is blasting in here, we need all the clothing we have on our backs. I can’t see THRUSH giving us any help in that department.” 

“We could use those tapestries on the wall as cover. They’d be pretty good, actually, if you can pull them down.” 

Illya stood up, walked to the nearest one and shone his flashlight over the large wall hanging. The pattern on the old tapestry was faded with age and smelled musty. “It’s not in very good condition,” he observed. “It’s threadbare in some parts of it.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“True,” Kuryakin agreed and grasped the thick fabric with both hands. Hoping his weight would overwhelm whatever was holding it to the wall, he jumped up and pulled himself up higher along one edge. They both heard a piece of metal hit the floor and the tapestry slid askew along the wall. 

“Try the other side,” Napoleon said hugging himself to keep warm.

The second side was more stubborn and required two tugs to bring it to the floor. Illya jumped out of the way as the heavy tapestry hit the floor in a crumpled mass of moldering fabric. He coughed on the dust. “This thing smells awful,” he complained, pulling it across the floor. “I hate to think of all the molds and dust mites embedded in it.”

“I don’t care if it smells like sheep dip as long as it blocks the wind,” Napoleon replied. 

“Let’s see if there’s a relatively clean spot we can rip apart for your shoulder.”

“How are we going to do that?”

Illya darted the flashlight around the room. “They threw the backpack in here with us,” he said triumphantly as he jumped up to retrieve it. “They must be pretty sure we can’t escape from this room.” Kuryakin knelt down to rummage through his backpack. He pulled out a small penknife and grinned, his teeth showing white in the dim light.

Napoleon sighed heavily against the pain in his shoulder. “We’ll just have to use their over-confidence against them then, won’t we?”

Kuryakin straightened out the tapestry and knelt down to examine it. “Forever the optimist, aren’t you? Egret did say it was a five-storey drop. With the high ceilings, that translates to at least sixty feet. It won’t be a soft landing by any stretch of the imagination.”

“We’ll find a way,” Solo said with assurance.

“I hope so.” Illya had just found a section of the tapestry that seemed relatively clean when the door to the room burst open. Quickly he tossed the penknife to Napoleon, then stood between the entering guards and his partner.

“Dr. Egret wants us to retrieve the film you swallowed,” one of the guards said.

“I’ll be happy to produce it in, say, two days if she’s willing to wait,” Illya said glibly. 

“She has another idea in mind,” the same guard replied and approached the blond agent with a pair of handcuffs.

Kuryakin’s tone became insistent. “I need to see to my friend’s wound first.”

The other guard lifted his rifle. “Maybe you need another reminder of who’s in charge.”

“Go on, Illya,” Napoleon said. “I’ll be okay.”

Illya looked over his shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’m just sorry I’ll be missing all the fun.”

The Russian agent snorted as the guard handcuffed his hands behind him. “I’ll be sure to tell you all about it.” 

“I know you will,” Solo said loudly as they led Illya to the door. After hearing the bolt close on the other side of the door, he added, “Sorry, my friend.” Slowly he edged his way to the tapestry and pulled it around his shivering body.

* * * * *

Two hours later, Napoleon roused when the heavy wooden door opened again and the two guards re-entered with a compliant Illya Kuryakin slung between them. Solo emerged from the roll of tapestry to see his partner dropped to the floor in front of him, producing a deep moan low in the throat. The guards left, each chuckling over the condition of their burden.

“Illya—”

The blond agent stirred. “Ipecac—ever hear of it?” the rough voice groaned.

“Isn’t that the stuff they give a kid when he accidently swallows something he shouldn’t have?”

“Then it isn’t a THRUSH concoction?”

“No, it’s not, sorry. Did you throw up the canister?”

“The canister, my supper, a fair quantity of bile, both of my feet and half my liver, I think, before Egret gave me an injection of metoclopramide to stop it.”

“That was decent of her.”

“I don’t believe that was really her intention, but I’m not complaining. She definitely has plans for us. One thing puzzles me: the canister you gave me isn’t the one that had the film I shot. What happened to the other canister?”

“Must have dropped it somewhere,” Solo said with effort.

“How careless of you,” Illya admonished affectionately. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Just waiting for you to work your magic, if you feel up to it.”

“I’m sore but otherwise fine. Where was I when I was so rudely interrupted?”

“Ready to cut a piece of tapestry. Remember the place?”

“Of course.” Illya gave Napoleon a reassuring smile that was almost invisible in the dark. “I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

* * * * *

Kuryakin laid a handful of threads taken from the warp of the tapestry beside his friend and gently freed the injured shoulder from the confines of the clothing. “I’m going to soak the fibers in some alcohol before I pack the wound with them to keep down infection. I don’t have to tell you it’s going to hurt like bloody hell.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Well, if this was Russia, I could dose you both inside and out with vodka and you wouldn’t care about my bedside manner.”

“Maybe they have some single malt downstairs you could use if you ask nicely.”

“They’d probably just give me some more of that ipecac. Now, that’s a vile concoction.” He picked up a wad of alcohol-soaked thread. “Ready?”

“No, but don’t let it stop you.” The wad touched open flesh and a sustained groan emanated from Napoleon’s throat. Illya grimly ignored the sound and pushed wad after wad of fiber into the wound. When no more could be forced, he checked the back of Solo’s shoulder, expecting to see that the fibers had worked their way through. 

“That’s odd,” he said softly.

“What’s odd?” the dark-haired agent rasped.

“I should be able to see the fiber on the other side.” Though Solo moaned, Kuryakin pressed along the top of the muscle. “There’s something in here, but it shouldn’t be the bullet.” Illya looked down at his partner. “Care to comment?”

Napoleon forced a congenial smile. “About what?”

In that moment, Kuryakin understood. “Never mind, it’s not important.” He picked up another wad of thread and inserted it into the back of the wound. “All finished. How does it feel?”

“I think bloody hell about covers it.”

“You should rest. You’ve lost around a pint of blood from the looks of it and you’re going to need your strength if we’re going to get out of here.”

“Tell me you have an idea.”

“I do, but I don’t know how long it’s going to take to until we’ll be able to use it.”

Suddenly Solo’s shoulder hardly hurt at all. “What do you have in mind?”

“The tapestries seem to be made of cotton warp threads and linen woof threads. Cotton is a strong fiber, but linen is even more so. If we can dismantle the tapestries in a decent amount of time, we can twist the threads into a rope of sorts.”

“Will it be strong enough to hold our weight?”

“Not together, but I do think it will support one of us at a time.”

Napoleon was skeptical. “Where did this idea come from?”

“From a book that _was_ at the top of my reading list. It was about British prisoners-of-war being held in a German castle during World War II and how they devised all manner of ingenious implements and tools to try and escape. A soldier who had actually been a prisoner there wrote it. I think we might be able to apply the same techniques here. _If_ the guards leave us more or less alone while we do it, that is.

“Unless you have any other ideas.”

“No, it seems to be the best plan we’ve got. Let’s get to work.”

* * * * *

The major drawback to the plan was that the guards did leave the two UNCLE agents alone; which meant neither Solo nor Kuryakin received food or water for nearly twenty-four hours. The lack of water took its greatest toll on Napoleon, but he doggedly refused to heed his partner’s suggestions of rest to pull his tapestry apart into its bare threads. 

While cotton and linen fibers were not as rough as many others, the work left both men’s hands raw and bleeding after hours of handling the tapestries and the transformation into a usable rope. These were minor inconveniences compared to what they were sure awaited them if they didn’t escape soon. 

Finally, the morning of the second day, a pair of buckets appeared through the opened door, one with potable water and one for waste. Both buckets were sorely welcomed. 

Illya determined that the two tapestries they had torn apart yielded about fifty feet of rope, ten feet shy of his estimate to reach the ground. When they tore apart the coveralls and used their fabric, the Russian was happy to report that while they might be cold during their escape, the coveralls had allowed them to escape without risking a broken ankle or worse. 

Again, they decided to wait until dark before attempting the climb down the side of the castle wall. Illya however, was concerned about Napoleon’s ability hold his own weight on the rope and voiced it.

“I know what’s at stake here,” the senior agent argued. “I’m telling you, I can do it.”

“It’s a long way down,” Illya countered, “and you’ll make a very ugly splat at the bottom if you slip.”

“I’m not going to slip.”

“If you’d just swallow that annoying pride of yours for a change and let me lower you down first, we can eliminate the possibility that I might have to contact the members of your harem to inform them of your demise.

“Think of it as a public service, Napoleon. You’ll be saving a lot of beautiful ladies a lot of sorrow.”

Napoleon smiled. “You’re right, you know. I don’t feel confident about shimmying down this rope. And I certainly can’t let you go to Tahiti by yourself.”

The escape went as smoothly in reality as it had in the conception; an astonishment to both UNCLE agents, but they were not inclined to question why. The five-kilometer hike back to the plane in the dark was exhausting. To their relief, the plane showed no sabotage, everything was just as they had left it. Tired as he was, Illya was more than anxious to become airborne and on route to UNCLE headquarters, London.

After a two-day break, during which Napoleon received treatment for his injury, at the same time liberating the microfilm, and both agents made their preliminary reports to Mr. Waverly, the two agents settled into the comfort of first-class seats on a transoceanic flight to New York. While Napoleon contentedly watched the movie, Illya began to read the book he had managed to find in a London bookstore: _Kidnapped_ by Robert Louis Stevenson.

At a briefing three days later in Mr. Waverly’s office, Napoleon and Illya had the chance to read hard copies of the files photographed at Castle Stuart. While they read, Mr. Waverly told them that agents from the Edinburgh office dismantled operations in the castle, but found no trace of Dr. Egret. 

“So she manages to get away again, the slippery little minx,” Napoleon commented. 

“To set up elsewhere,” Illya finished. 

“If Dr. Egret manages to set just a few of these plans into motion,” Waverly commented, “we’ll have a worrisome year. Some of these ideas are quite diabolical.”

“Sounds like that vacation we were planning should come sooner rather than later,” Solo said. “Right, Illya?”

Waverly looked up. “How long were you planning to be away, Mr. Solo?”

“A couple of weeks, sir. Illya thought Tahiti might be nice. Illya?”

Both Napoleon and Waverly looked across the table at the blond Russian who sat very silent and very still at his place, his face gone very pale as he stared down at the transcription of Egret’s planned projects. “You’ve found something, Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly asked.

Illya nodded slowly. “Yes, sir, I think I have.”

“What is it, Illya?” Solo said, a queasy feeling rising in his stomach in response to his partner’s demeanor.

“Some place we’re desperately going to need to be very soon, and it’s not Tahiti.”

_finis_

  


**Author's Note:**

> David McCallum starred in the 1978-79 mini series in the role of Alan Breck Stuart  
> He also starred in the 1972-74 series Colditz, in the role of Flight Lieutenant Simon Carter, a WWII RAF pilot incarcerated in Colditz Castle in Colditz, Germany. As much as I love UNCLE, this is my favorite DMcC series.


End file.
